


I Think My Soul Knows Yours...

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, No Voldy AU, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: Hermione Granger isn't one to fall for the idea of soulmates, even when her own is presented to her in a vision, but all that changes when she meets him.**No Voldy AU**
Relationships: Hermione Granger/James Potter
Comments: 66
Kudos: 343
Collections: Hermione's Nook RarePair Soulmate Fest





	I Think My Soul Knows Yours...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hermione's Nook Soulmate Rare Pair Fest! Huge thanks to the admins for this wonderful fest, I had so much fun! 
> 
> Your Trope/Prompt is: Instead of removing flower petals for “loves me, loves me not” the flower petals dictate whether you’ll meet in this lifetime (“meet me, meet me not”) and it’s forever accurate.

**Fall 1994**

“This is stupid,” Hermione huffed, a bushy, would-be curl lifting into the air. “I don’t even believe in soulmates.” 

“Well, you ought to.” Padma narrowed her glare and settled deeper into her seated position, legs folded under her. “Take this.” She held out an innocuous little stem covered in lavender buds; with a groan, Hermione took it. 

“Now what?” Rolling her eyes, she held the flower at arm’s length, as though at any moment it would form a jaw and begin snarling at her. 

“Pinch the bottom and drag upwards, pushing the petals free and letting them fall into the cauldron.” 

Under the scrutionous stare of half a dozen third and fourth-year witches, who’d gathered in a tight circle around a single cauldron on the floor of their dorm, Hermione obliged, following the steps meticulously and then sitting back on her bottom. Padma grinned, reaching for her mortar and making dust of the flower. She upended several vials into the cauldron, filling the room with fragrant and enticing scents, though she seemed to be the only one affected. 

Despite her protestations, she swooned. She’d expected it to smell like lavender, but it didn’t. It was wood and wilderness, smoky fire and evergreen. Her eyes fluttered and her heart leapt wildly in her chest. Padma tapped her wand against the lip of the cauldron, muttering an incoherent spell before shoving the cauldron towards Hermione. 

“Hurry! Inhale!” 

Grimacing, Hermione dragged a long breath in through her nose. Behind closed lids danced a vision—a man with messy black hair and hazel eyes fringed with laugh lines, broad-shouldered and strong. 

“Hermione?” Lavender’s voice pulled her back to the present. 

Blinking, Hermione tried to make sense of what had just happened. Each girl wore a matching Cheshire grin, and Padma reached forward to snag the cauldron and, surprising everyone, tossed the contents into the air. The liquid stayed suspended for a heartbeat and then rearranged into three letters: JFP. Then, it dusted into nothing, floating off as though it had never existed at all. 

“Did you see something, Hermione?” Ginny pressed, her voice low as she leaned into her. “If you saw someone, you’re going to meet him. Your soulmate.” 

Clearing her throat, Hermione turned to her friend, finding her eyes hopeful. “I don’t know,” she said with a tight laugh, shrugging. “It was kind of hard to tell.” 

Padma slid the cauldron to Lavender, recounting how her gran had taught her the summer prior, the way all Patils were taught since the dawn of their line, apparently. And as Lavender grumbled and growled, seeing nothing after smelling the vapors of the cauldron, Hermione couldn’t help but think of the man with the mischievous smile and hazel eyes. 

**Spring 2003**

Harry Potter, and by extension Theo Nott, had thought enough to send most of their graduating class invitations to their wedding. Through the years following Hogwarts, they hadn’t remained close but were still well acquainted. But now, arriving at Potter Hall in the lush Canterbury countryside, she felt nothing if not out of sorts. She wasn’t sure their friendship warranted an invitation, and while at first she’d been all too happy at the prospect of seeing her classmates again, they were soon arriving on the lawn in pairs. _Couples._

Wrinkling her nose and fussing with her violet tea dress, Hermione approached the smattering of chairs crowding around a beautifully decorated arch. 

“Hermione!” A hand shot out, snagging her elbow, and Hannah Abbot was suddenly there, crushing her body in a tight hug. “Merlin, I haven’t seen you since school! How are you?” 

“Oh!” Hermione coughed, disentangling herself. “Brilliant, thanks. You?” 

“We’ve been good! Neville and I are expecting this fall.” Her hands fell to the soft swell hidden under her dress, and Hermione’s mouth popped open in a silent _O._

“My goodness! I— I didn’t know you and Neville were a thing! Congratulations!” All at once uncomfortable, Hermione shifted and played with a loose bead on her clutch, gesturing that they might go and sit. 

Near the front was a group of her friends, most of them she’d not seen for half a decade, and she took a seat on the aisle, crossing her ankles demurely. “So,” Hannah continued, “what have you been up to all this time?”

With a start, Hermione realized that Hannah was still in conversation with her and blinked a few times to focus her thoughts. “I’ve been in Paris, actually, but I’ve recently moved back. I was working for the French Minister but have secured a position here in London. Felt like it was time to come home.” 

“Well, that’s brilliant, Hermione!” Neville crooned from the far side of Hannah, his arm now slung over her chair back. “We’re glad to have you back.” 

Hermione nodded, listening to idle chatter that lilted through the group. From nowhere at all, she felt a tug— _a pull._ Her head snapped over her shoulder and through the smattering of people, her eyes caught on _him._ Messy black hair and hazel eyes intent on only her, broad-shouldered and strong. Her breath hitched, and her hands flew to the sides of her chair, clutching until she was white-knuckled. 

Ginny, who’d since taken a seat in front of her, reached a palm out for Hermione’s cheek. “Goodness, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! Are you alright?” 

Without thought, Hermione’s own hand rose, fingers wrapping around her friend’s forearm as she tore her gaze from the man across the lawn. “Ginny, who is that?” 

“Who? The one staring?” A laugh bubbled past her friend’s lips, and she let her hand fall away from Hermione’s cheek. “That’s James Potter.” 

“I thought Harry was an only child.” Hermione’s brow furrowed, her gaze flickering once more to the stranger across the way, the same one who was craning to see her past a wall of people. 

Ginny smiled. “He is. That’s his dad.” 

The color drained from Hermione’s cheeks. “Oh, right. Of course.” 

Ginny leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes dancing in mischief. “Still fit as fuck, if you ask me.” 

Snorting, Hermione’s gaze drifted to where he had stood just seconds before, finding the space surprisingly vacant. Something ached in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t new, she realized. It had always been there; she was just now painfully aware of it. 

It overwhelmed her, swallowed her, _drowned her._ But she had no idea what it was. For some reason she couldn’t place, a night from her fourth year at Hogwarts swam to the front of her vision, a sprig of lavender and floating letters. JFP. 

xXx

The ceremony was nothing short of magical in every sense of the word. Until now, Hermione hadn’t witnessed a soul bond. Watching their magic reach for each other, intertwining in intricate tendrils that wove and covered them, was awe-inspiring. Tears welled and finally spilled over her cheeks as the lips met, their souls bound for the rest of time. 

Now, under an indigo sky peppered with shimmering stars, the merriment and inevitable inebriation of the evening peaked. Through the crowds, she’d set eyes on Mr. James Potter a time or two, and each time her heart lurched and the magic in her veins sang. As much as she felt utterly and completely drawn to him, she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge it. 

It was Harry’s dad, for crying out loud; he was presumably married to Lily Potter and the owner of this massive estate. Whatever crush she’d decided to latch onto was watery at best and it was smart to let it wither and die. 

As the champagne tickled her throat, Hermoine remained on the fringe of the dance floor, swaying to the soft melody as she watched the happy couples lost in love. In the center of it all were the grooms, their noses bumping and grins permanently fixed on their lips. Even Hermione couldn’t bite back the smile as she finished the last of her champagne. 

“I hate weddings.” A low voice sounded just over her shoulder and she jumped, cursing under her breath as she reeled on the newcomer. But upon setting sights on James Potter in such close vicinity, words failed her spectacularly. 

Up close, she realized how very young he looked. There was a fringe of gray at his temples, and lines mapped out years of laughing and sunny days, but there was something about the way the gold burst in his hazel eyes that made them shimmer. 

“Oh?” The syllable hung in the space between them, worthless and inadequate. 

His gaze danced between her eyes, and his full lips pulled into a smirk. “Here,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he offered her a full flute of champagne.

“Thank you.” As she took it, her eyes bulged from her skull, and she quickly found a surface for her empty glass. Turning back for the dance floor, she couldn’t drown out the sound of her heart thrashing against her ribs. “Congratulations by the way.” 

James joined her, his arm brushing against hers as he leaned slightly into her space. “Congratulations?”

“Well, it’s a big day for you and your wife, I mean.” A blush crawled up her neck, stretching all the way to her ears as gooseflesh erupted over her exposed skin. “So, um— yes. Congratulations.” At that, she tore her gaze from his and began slugging from her drink as she stared wild-eyed at the dance floor. 

“Do you want to dance?” 

_“What?”_ Hermione stepped back as though he’d just slapped her arse, her hand coming up to clutch at her proverbial pearls. 

His laugh rumbled through the air, brushing against her skin, and he finished his drink, holding his hand out for hers. “Let’s dance.” Ticking his chin to the side, he began backing towards the dance floor, hand still reaching for hers. 

In a split decision, she downed the rest of her drink, wincing as it hit the back of her throat, and then laid her fingers in his palm. The moment their skin touched, _she felt it._ Golden and alive, as a part of her as her skin and her magic. Sucking in a sharp breath, their gazes locked, and his thumb danced over her knuckles as he led her further onto the dance floor. 

The melody shifted into something impossibly slower and before she knew it, she was being tugged into his arms, his free hand coming up to rest on her hip. Every fiber of her being thrummed.

She deftly avoided his stare, even as it heated her cheek. “She’s not my wife.” 

“Sorry?”

“Lily. We’re not married… I’m surprised Harry never mentioned it.” The hand on her hip drifted to the small of her back, and his thumb slid easily over the smooth fabric of her dress. 

“Oh. Um… well, I suppose he might’ve in passing.” The fire in her belly grew, licking at the back of her throat. 

His tongue darted out, wetting his lip before dragging said lip between his teeth. “Hermione, right? Hermione Granger? Harry talked of you often. You dated, right?”

She snorted, her eyes rolling back as she settled deeper into his embrace. “Hardly. My kiss was the one that helped him realize he’d much rather dance with Theodore Nott than with any witch.” 

“Well, his loss… and all that.” 

_“All that,”_ she breathed. There was _something_ —something she couldn’t name or place but it surrounded her, pressing in until even working her lungs proved laborious. “I think I need some air.” 

Chuckling, his nose wrinkled, and he pulled her impossibly closer. “We’re outside.” 

“More.” She blinked hard. “More air… excuse me.” Stepping away from his touch, she rushed from the confines of the tent, fingers fisting in the loose skirt of her dress. 

As soon as she was on the lawn, overlooking rolling English hills that drowned her in the realization of just how very much she missed home, she sucked in greedy, desperate breaths. Maybe it was the champagne or the sheer overstimulation of arriving back to Britain and being accosted with people from her past and handsome strangers that she could have _sworn_ she’d seen before. 

“You’ll freeze, love.” 

Her breath hitched, reeling at the now familiar voice approaching through a canopy of darkness. As he emerged from the shadows, he shrugged from his jacket. He didn’t offer it, instead, stepping close and draping it across her shoulders as she studied him in the uneven light from the tent. 

It was impossible— _beyond_ impossible really. She didn’t believe in soulmates or destiny or divination or nonsense. But looking at him, feeling the way that that endless ache seemed to quiet and still—seemed to _purr—_ she couldn’t help but recall the man from her vision a lifetime ago. 

_“Do you feel it too?”_ he whispered; his hand lifted, hovering in the small space between them. 

Vision hazy, her hand nearly met his, their magic pulsing between their palms. Chuckling to himself, he reached forward and laced their fingers. And while it was far too forward and wholly presumptuous, she wasn’t offended. Quite the opposite, really. She was… _comforted._

His touch felt like home, like thick, knitted blankets and warm tea with milk and honey. Like a fire on its last embers because she’d sat there for too long enjoying its warmth and the last lingering remnants of a good day that filtered through her windows and refused to concede, dancing dappled light on her floor that stole all thoughts away. 

“What’s your middle name?” The question surprised them both, and as soon as she’d spoken the words she folded her lips, shrinking away. But he was fast; his hands darted out, banding around her waist and bringing her home. 

“It’s embarrassing.” He smiled; it was lopsided and ridiculous, but strangely enough she felt as though she’d known it in a lifetime before. 

Moving of their own accord, her hands landed on the thick expanse of his chest barely hidden by the thin white of his oxford, a bow tie hanging free from his collar. 

“Tell me anyway.” The words were barely audible but by the way the edges of his eyes tightened, she knew he heard.

One hand left her waist, lifting to brush a curl from her jaw, and he shook his head in disbelief. “I think I know you.” 

“What’s your middle name?” she repeated, ignoring the way her heart stuttered to a stop when his gaze fell to her lips. 

“Fleamont.” The word ripped the air from her lungs even as he snorted and rolled his eyes. “James _Fleamont_ Potter.” 

“J… F… P.” 

Shrugging, his smile turned to a grin. “JFP. I have a feeling your middle name begins with J.” 

Disbelief twisted her brow and she pulled back slightly. “How could you possibly know that?” 

Begrudgingly, his hands fell away from her, slipping the top three buttons of his Oxford free. Pulling away his vest, he revealed a… _a birthmark._ With a sharp gasp, her fingers trailed lightly over the letters. 

HJG

“I don’t understand…” Shaking her head, she took a sharp step back as he closed his shirt and carded a nervous hand through his hair. 

“If it helps,” he offered, taking a single tentative step towards her, “I don’t either. I was born with it over my heart.” His hand splayed over the mark reverently and she couldn’t help the overwhelming emotion pressing in around her, pulling tears forward. “My Gran— she told me it was rare, to be marked like this. That someday I’d find you, the one my soul was already bonded to. She used to tell me that souls are fickle and stubborn— _unyielding._ ” 

He took another step, and she felt it all at once: an orbit, an ache, an unrelenting force. 

_“But,”_ he continued, “I didn’t believe it. I married Lily at seventeen after we found out about Harry, and I felt this… this… it was like I was sinning and my entire being was rebelling. And eventually, I gave up.” 

_“Oh?”_ Was it possible to feel feather-light whilst completely grounded, tethered and tied to someone?

_“_ I _think_ …” James Potter took the final step, his face hovering just an inch from hers as his hands came up to cradle her jaw. “I think my soul knows yours. Is that crazy?” 

Her fingers curled around the thick muscle of his forearms, and the smell of woods and wilderness, evergreen and bonfire assaulted her. 

“Yes.” She laughed as his thumbs banished the traitorous tears from her cheek. “It’s absolutely certifiable… but I think mine knows yours, too.” 

The last thing she saw before her eyes fluttered closed was his smile, triumphant and proud, gleaning in the darkness before vanishing to press his lips to hers. The world stopped for that moment; even the universe held a reverence for when two souls found their way to each other again, and as their lips learned each other the first time, their magic reveled, rising and wrapping and enveloping them as they clung to each other. 

His tongue brushed against her bottom lip, and she opened for him, every inch of her desperate to be with him again. 

_Soulmate._

What a ridiculous, preposterous, and utterly wonderful thing to be. 

  
  


**xXx**

**A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day Jamione shippers! I had a fun time with this and I hope you enjoyed some sugar sweet soulmate fluff.**

**Thank you as always to my alpha, MCal, and beta, Ravenslight. Not to get all mushy, but I feel like y’all are my soulmates too! Haha**

**Hope your day is wonderful, lovely reader!**

**P.S. I reserve the right to expand and showcase the soulmate smut that would have felt a little forced here... if that's a thing you're into, please subscribe!**


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